Bedtime

I guess it started with the bedtimes stories. Frightful one, filled with monsters and evil captors. To my young mind they seemed almost real. I would stay in his bed, too scared to be in my own, alone. He would whisper to me that he would protect me, they wouldn't hurt me. He would hold me and sing me a lullaby.

As I got older, the fear faded, but I craved the comfort he supplied. I stayed in his arms, even when he didn't tell stories or sing. He was warm, he smelled like cigarettes and Joop.

Our parents disapproved of it when I turned 12, they said I was no longer a child and it wasn't normal to sleep in his bed with him.
But every night I snuck into his bed, every morning sneaking back to my own.

I had no idea what kind of path we would start going down. What was going to happen.
But I didn't care.
I loved my step brother.